


The Waiting Game

by imaginationtherapy



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Dadsday, Endeavour Morse Whump, Feels, Fred is a dad and Fred is worried about his Son, Gen, Gift Fic, Gratuitous use of italics, Hurt/Comfort, Worry, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-08-14 02:24:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20184694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginationtherapy/pseuds/imaginationtherapy
Summary: It's just another day of too much paperwork and not enough time. Until the phone rings, and Fred Thursday is placed face-to-face with his worse nightmare.





	1. Unfortunate Son

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mud_Lark](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mud_Lark/gifts).

> Okay. Listen. I know I have like 4 WIPs out there. I promise this will be 3 chapters and I promise to finish it by Sunday and I promise to not work on anything else until it's done. Mud_Lark requested this, and the idea took hold.
> 
> Many thanks to Mud_Lark for the prompt (basically, Fred is Worried about his Whump-Prone Son) and guardianoffun for listening to me hash out the details of the "plot".
> 
> Also, look: no slash!
> 
> As far as warnings, there's mostly assumed things going on, especially in the first chapter. I'm not sure that anything will get super super graphic. Just mentions of torture.

“Thursday here.” Thursday balanced the phone on his shoulder absentmindedly. He didn’t have time for this, whoever it was. But the last time he had ignored a phone call, it had been Division following up on some paperwork. Bright had chastised him quite soundly over that.

“Ahh, Fred!” A soft, smooth voice crooned. “So glad I caught you.” 

Thursday stiffened. That voice..._ Levine_. The man was a charmer and a ladies man, at least, during the day time. At night--and behind closed doors--he was an enforcer. It didn’t matter who needed who bumped off, if the price was right, Levine would do it. He didn’t much care _ how _ he had to get the job done either. Sometimes his clients specified, sometimes they didn’t. The law never could tell whether the more heinous crimes were of Levine’s own ambitions, or those who had hired him. There was suspicion that the cruel streak was Levine and Levine alone. At least one “client” had claimed no knowledge of the horrific means of death.

The man had gone by many aliases in his lifetime, and just as many disguises. No one really knew what he looked like--some said tall, lanky, and dark and others said more stooped, graying, and pale. He’d left his calling card as Jack Rapier, Henry Theit, Freud Monday, and Jake Peters. Thursday had chased the man before, in London. He’d managed to pin down his real name: Charles Levine, along with his true description. The trail had gone cold soon after, as several witnesses had gone missing. Thursday eventually had to give the man up when he’d come to Oxford. 

Until Levine had resurfaced--violently.

“I’m glad you remember me so well, Fred.”

“Hard to forget your folder, Levine.”

“I suppose so.” Thursday could hear the sick pride in the man’s voice. “That’s actually what I’m calling about, Fred. I see you’re back trying to pin some things on me.”

Thursday sneered. “I don’t aim to fail this time, Levine. I’ll follow you to the pits of hell if I have to.”

“Oh, Fred,” Levine’s voice was full of silky regret. “I was rather afraid you would feel that way.” He paused, and somewhere in the background, Thursday heard a thick _ thud_. It was followed by a muffled outcry that sent prickles of worry running up Thursday’s spine. “I took the liberty of bringing your boy ‘round, just in case you didn’t want to see reason.”

Worry turned to panic in an explosion of ice and shattered glass through Thursday’s veins. _ Sam _.

“If you so much as lay a finger on my son--” Thursday stood abruptly. His chair slammed into the wall behind him. Several men in the outer room turned to look at him in shock. Thursday paid them no heed. His entire being was focused on the sounds coming through the receiver. 

_ Sam_.

“Come now, Fred!” Levine’s voice sounded almost insulted. “Sammy’s just a kid. You know I’ve got standards, don’t you? Wouldn’t hurt a kid. Honest, Fred! Kids and women. Men like me’s got to draw the line somewhere.”

Thursday let himself breathe, but only just. Levine wasn’t a man to be trusted, and unless he was playing some unexpected game, there was still someone with him in that room.

“No, no, Fred. Only adults for me. Them’s that can choose what path they follow. This one here, well, it’s his own fault, now isn’t it?”

The dull _ thud _ sounded again, and now Thursday could recognize it for what it was: flesh on flesh. Somewhere, Levine was doing his best to beat Thursday into acquiescence by pounding his--or a cohort’s-- fists into some poor bastard.

“Levine, whoever you’ve got, they don’t belong in this.” Thursday pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to come down from the dizzying fear of _ Sam _.

Levine chuckled darkly. “Oh, he most certainly does. One of yours, Fred. One of your coppers. I dare say he knows damn well what he was getting himself into. Didn’t you?”

Again, that sickening sound was followed by a pained shout. It sounded muffled, though, as if the man had been gagged.

_ Copper. _ That was something to go on, then. Levine had got his hands on one of Thursday’s men. Thursday’s dark eyes scanned the anteroom, trying to place who was missing. 

“Come now, Fred. Can’t you guess?” Thursday could hear shuffling, as if Levine were moving across a room. “Pretty one, this one is. Almost a shame to mess him about. Quite a few other things I could think I’d rather do.” Levine laughed, low and leering. “Well, now, Fred. Let’s see if you can’t recognize your boy’s voice.”

Thursday heard the fist slam into a thin body, and somehow he knew. He knew even before he heard the now-clear cry of pain. He knew, and he realized he’d known from the beginning. Because who else would an enemy go for, if not his bagman? Thursday sagged into his chair.

“_Morse_.” 

He hadn’t even realized he’d let the word slip until Levine cackled gleefully.

“There you go! Good ol’ Fred. He recognizes you, isn’t that nice?” 

Thursday heard a sick moan from the other end of the line. “Levine, if you hurt him--”

“You see, Fred, that was rather the point.” Levine’s voice had lost its shine, just like Thursday knew it would. It hardened into rusted iron, tearing across Thursday’s nerves. “I’m afraid he’s a bit beyond _ roughed up _ at this point. Aren’t you, Morse?”

Thursday felt that rusty iron dig into his skin, burying itself just below his shoulder. _ God damn it. _ Always Morse. It was always Morse that they managed to wrap their hands around. Always that skinny, awkward, brilliant lad. The one that never seemed to actually hurt _ anyone _, despite his arrogance. Why did they always have to strike at the one weakness he actually had? 

Why was it never _ him? _ That--that he could have stood. Had they taken him, used their fists on him, he could have withstood it. That pain would be real, something he could fight against, something he could be angry with. This pain...it was a hollow feeling in his bones, an ache where his heart should have been. Knowing that they had Morse...and _ not knowing _ what they’d done to him--it felt as if something was gnawing away at his very core.

“I’ll tell you what, Fred? Why don’t I let you talk to him? He’s still able to talk, I promise. Eh, Morse? Go on, give your ol’ guv’nor a hullo!”

Thursday’s hand tightened on the receiver as static filtered through. There was a silence that bit into Thursday’s spine and then--

“Sir?” _ Morse_.

“Morse.” He couldn’t say more, didn’t know what to say. The questions he wanted answers to, Morse wouldn’t be allowed to answer. _ Where are you? What have they done? _ The answer he most wanted, he knew Morse wouldn’t give honestly. _ Are you alright_?

“I’m...alright, sir.” His voice was quiet. There was a clipped, tight essence to it that Thursday knew well enough. It spoke of pain. Thursday clenched his fist against the lie, knowing he would have done the same had their positions been reversed.

“Oh, come now, Morse.” Levine’s voice filtered through the background. “Surely you can do better than that.” 

Morse hissed. “Whatever...whatever he wants, sir, don’t give it to him. I’ll be alri--_ ahhh, _ no-- _ stop!” _ Morse broke off, his voice suddenly full of agony. “_Stop! Please--no, stop--stop!” _

“Levine!” Thursday thundered. He jumped from his chair, knocking it to the ground. His fist slammed into the desk. “Stop it, Levine! Leave him alone!”

Thursday was distantly aware that the entire outer room had gone quiet. He didn’t care. He could still hear Morse whimpering, begging Levine to stop. Thursday could hear his own heart pounding in his ears. He couldn’t do this...couldn’t stand here and listen to his bagman being tortured, knowing it was his own fault.

“Levine! Listen to me! _ Stop it_.”

The other end of the line went quiet. The only sound that filtered through was a soft keening cry. _ Morse _.

“You would be so proud of him, Fred.” Levine’s dragged like sandpaper across Thursday’s ears. “So strong. Took him till just then to give in.” Thursday could hear the evil smile on Levine’s face; it made him sick. 

“What did you do to him?” Thursday growled.

“Now, Fred. That would be telling.”

“God _ damn _ you, Levine.” Thursday cursed.

Levine laughed. “Oh, I daresay I’ve been damned a few times already.” There was a pause. “Now, the question remains, what to do with your boy here.”

Thursday felt his knees buckle under him as the implications of Levine’s words set in. _ Oh, God, no. _ One hand gripped at the edge of the desk. If he could have found the words, Thursday would have begged. _ Don’t...don’t kill him. Please. _If he could have reached through the phone, Thursday would have killed Levine with his bare hands. If he could have given the command, told his men to raid the building, he would have. 

But he could do nothing. He was powerless here, in his office. They could be anywhere. He couldn’t even _ hope _ to find them in time. And he was blind. He had no way of knowing what they had done to Morse, no way of knowing if the lad was in as much pain as it sounded like...no way of knowing if any of his injuries were life threatening.

And he had _ no way of stopping any of it. _

“Levine…” It was all he could say. The word came out choked and broken. He should have been ashamed. He wasn’t. Not for Morse.

“Tell you what, Fred.” Levine’s voice was crisp, all traces of theatrics gone. “I’ll let you come and get him. I’ll tell you where we are. Hell, I’ll even leave him alive for you.” Thursday ignored the audible way his lungs sought air. “But I’ll leave you with this warning: _ leave off. _ Otherwise, the next time I won’t be nearly as kind.”

“Where are you?” Thursday ground out. Levine told him, and he cursed. They had Morse--in God knows what shape, over forty-five minutes away. “Damn you,” he hissed. “Leave him at a hospital, Levine. He’s got no part in this, between us.”

Levine scoffed. “He’s one of yours, Fred. That makes him part of this. And a hospital? Really? Fred, you do underestimate my kindness.” Something in his voice made Thursday’s heart stutter painfully. “I said I’d leave him alive. Didn’t guarantee he’d be that way when you got here.”

The world swam in front of Thursday’s eyes. “Levine…”

“I wouldn’t tarry, Fred. Blood loss is a hell of a killer.”

_ Address, he had an address_. He could get the local coppers there, get an ambulance there, he could get there in time…

And then Morse screamed. 

The sound filled Thursday with horror. He felt it lash against his skin, flaying into him like a whip. The guttural agony to the sound choked him, stole the breath from his lungs. It nearly drove him to his knees.

Then there was silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 100% full disclosure, I've also been hella depressed today. Like...bad. Writing is one of the few things that helps get me out of my own mind, and posting helps me to check the "i did something" box. That's actually why this is getting tossed up in a hurry. The muse took hold, and I let it pull me away from one pit of darkness into the some-what friendlier pit of whump.
> 
> Heh.


	2. Don't Look Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Forty-five minutes separate Thursday from the answers he wants--the answers he needs. Forty-five minutes is a long time for a man who knows both the torturer and the tortured. Forty-five minutes is a long time for an old copper trying to piece together a few fragmented cries and threats.
> 
> It may just be the longest ride of Fred Thursday's life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....I've broken one promise already. I added a chapter.
> 
> Okay, so this chapter got longer than I planned. And I need a hospital scene and then a little bit of comfort scene. So...yeah. *ahem*

Thursday felt the wailing of the sirens deep within his bones. He felt the uneven rumble of the car as it cut its harried way across the streets of Oxford. He felt the hard frame of the door, the smooth polish of the leather, and the rough scratch of his wool jacket.

None of it registered. None of it managed to drown out that blood curdling scream. 

Thursday knew that sound would stay with him until the grave. He knew he would hear it in his dreams, and in silent moments for the rest of his life.

It had echoed in his mind as he slammed the receiver down. It had spurred him forward as he tore through the staring crowd of officers. He had put the weight of that scream into his words as he demanded that Bright contact the local police. 

Bright had heard the desperation in his voice. Somehow, he had managed to get men and an ambulance on the way to Morse in less than five minutes. He had procured the name of the closest hospital and had directed Strange to take Thursday there.

“You’ll do no good trying to get to the warehouse, Thursday.” Bright had looked _ through _ Thursday, straight to the writhing mass of fear and anger deep inside him. “You’ll go to the hospital and wait for Morse there.”

Thursday had nodded, barely comprehending the words. He went through the motions, trusting the instincts that had formed during the war. It was times like these that he was almost grateful for those terrible days filled with mud and fear and death. They had left him with the ability to carry out whatever was necessary--whatever had to be done in the moment--while deep inside he was afraid and worried and _ lost_. 

It was Strange with him now, steering the car through traffic and past curious onlookers. It was Strange who wouldn’t stop nattering on--about how the men would find Morse, about what might be wrong, about what Levine might want. Thursday knew--really, he knew-- that Strange was just trying to keep both their minds off of what they might find. But it did no good. Thursday could still hear Morse’s screams, and every time Strange venture a guess, he felt someone twist a knife deeper and deeper into his gut.

“I don’t know, goddammit,” Thursday finally exploded. “I don’t bloody know what they’ve done to him. They could have torn him limb from limb, for all the more I know. He could be lying there with a knife between his ribs. Levine’s known to mutilate his corpses beyond recognition. _ Dammit_, Strange.”

Thursday stopped himself there. He’d gone too far, and he knew it. Strange didn’t deserve that. He was worried for Morse too. Not as worried as Thursday--no, he could never be. Not until the man knew what it was like to fear for someone entrusted to his care. Not until he knew what it was like to have your own shortcomings be the reason another man lay bleeding out in some abandoned warehouse.

Thursday scrubbed a hand over his face. He took a deep breath, and made sure to keep his voice even when he continued. “There’s no point in wondering, Strange. Whatever you can think of, I’ve seen worse each time I close my eyes.”

Strange glanced at him warily out of the corner of his eye. He gave a sharp nod, and then turned back to the road.

Thursday sagged wearily against the door. He couldn’t reassure Strange. There were no reassurances to be given. Morse had been left to the mercies of a man who had no mercy. Thursday well knew what Levine was capable of. He’d seen the bodies. He’d been at the autopsies. He knew which injuries had been inflicted post-mortem, and which had been inflicted while the victim was still alive.

All those images--crime scene photographs, autopsy reports, first-hand sighting-- flashed across his mind. Thursday could feel his copper’s instinct trying to piece together a picture of what the coppers storming the building might find. He didn’t want to give in to that instinct; that way lay only heartache and pain. But it was second nature to him now, not something he could turn off.

He had little to go on. Just his memories of Levine and the sound of Morse in pain. He’d heard the unmistakable sound of fists driving themselves into skin. He couldn’t stop himself from picturing Morse’s thin frame collapsing under the onslaught of violent blows. 

Then Morse had cried out, _ begged _ for them to stop...something. Thursday knew Morse wasn’t stoic; the man grimaced at paper cuts. But Morse was proud and stubborn. He’d been trying to tell Thursday not to give in; he’d been trying to mask the pain he was already in. Whatever they had done--and _ kept _ doing, damn it--it couldn’t have been good.

And the scream..._ God _ that scream. It could mean anything. It could mean that Morse was lying on the floor with a knife in his gut. It could mean they had snapped his neck or his spine--it wouldn’t be the first time Levine had left a man to die with a broken back. It could mean any number of things.

_ God _ , did Thursday want that radio to spark to life. _ Anything _ would be better than this not knowing. The longer he went without hearing anything, the more horrifying images his mind could concoct. Absent firm evidence to rely on, all he had were the screams and the whimpers and the simple fact that _ Levine had had his hands on Morse_.

Everything that had come before--Opera lunatics and Blenheim Vale and Tigers-- paled in comparison to that haunting figure from Thursday’s past. Because he knew--he _ knew _ what Levine was capable of. He knew what he could and _ would _ do. 

And God help him, he knew Morse. He knew that streak of defiance and arrogance. He knew what Morse would look like in the face of a monster like Levine. He could see those wide eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw. He knew Morse would radiate anger and contempt and hubris. That image alone--Morse glaring up at Levine, spitting insults and demands at him--was more terrifying than any of the pictures in that dog-eared file on his desk. 

Because if there was one thing Levine loved--one thing that Thursday had learned after years of tracking the man--it was breaking men. It was almost as if it were an experiment for him, or a game. Thursday had pieced together many dark, blood-spattered basements over the years, sometimes with the help of traitors to Levine who had been unable to stomach what they’d witnessed. They all told a similar tale: Levine taunting and torturing just for the sake of watching men crumble under him. The easy ones, the simple murders, those had been men who’d begged right away. The hard ones--the ones that still haunted Thursday--those had been the ones who had stared up at Levine, unafraid and angry.

Just like Morse.

The loud spark from the radio startled Thursday out of his reverie. He cursed, loudly, as he picked up the receiver.

“Thursday here. Go ahead.” _ Tell me he’s alive. _

It was an unfamiliar, automatic voice that responded. Devoid of any emotion from which Thursday could piece together more of this puzzle.

“DS Morse is on his way to Laird Whiting Hospital,” the voice reported.

Thursday felt as if an iron band were wrapped around his chest, forcing air and blood out of him. “_ Is he alive. _” The words were forced from him, angry and brittle. Because he’d known they’d take the lad there. But the hospital contained its own morgue, and he knew not whether to look for Morse in that dungeon of steel and carbolic soap or in the white-washed wards with antiseptic and too-friendly nurses.

“Yes, sir.” Thursday knew he shouldn’t collapse like this, boneless and weary, in front of a sergeant. But it was Morse, and Strange would understand. “He was alive but not conscious.”

_ Alive. _ Alive was something, more than he had dared hope. It wasn’t everything, but it was something. _ Where there’s life, there’s hope_.

“What were his injuries?” He didn’t want to know, not really. But _ alive _ could mean so many things...Mickey Carter had been _ alive _ when they’d found him. He’d been _ alive _ but with so many broken bones and battered insides that he’d soon been _ dead_.

What was Morse?

“No full report, sir.” That cursed monotone voice, as if this weren’t _ Morse _ they were talking about. As if it weren’t his bagman, his second son, the man he was meant to shepherd to an Inspector position. _ Damn _ that voice. “The boys on sight reported once they freed him that the medics took over. No further reports.”

Thursday signed off and cursed again.

He still had another twenty minutes to the hospital. Twenty minutes to find out...and Morse could be _ dead _ by then, the same way Mickey Carter had been _ dead _.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, all, for your encouragement! I'm really having a fun time with this (and also distracting myself from the Existential Dread). Apologies on the poor hospital name. I was going for something like the John Radcliffe and just took the first name that popped into my head--incidentally the name of my boss's uncle. *shrug*
> 
> Also...what are your thoughts on what happened to Morse? What has Levine done to him? *gasp*


	3. Imagine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God damn it, why wouldn't someone tell him? Just tell him what had happened. So he could stop imagining, stop playing those cries and screams in his ears.
> 
> The truth, it seems, didn't put his mind to rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dammit, Thursday.  
He just had to go and spend ANOTHER chapter on exposition.  
Okay...five chapters. That's my cut off. I hope...
> 
> Warnings: Graphic depictions of imagined violence (although tbh it's about what happened).

They’d made it. Thank God, they’d finally made it. Strange jerked the car to the curb and shut it off. Neither of them cared if someone would come along later and throw a fit about where the blasted thing was parked. The only thing that mattered was Morse.

Too-calm nurses and receptionists directed Thursday and Strange to the surgery waiting room. None of them would tell him anything; it was just tight lipped smiles, _ ask the doctor _ , and polite nods. Thursday wanted to rage at them, toss over chairs, do anything to get a reaction. The old-school copper in him begged to be let loose. He needed an outlet for his anger; an outlet, or some _ Goddamned answers_.

The only answer he had was that Morse had made it to the hospital _ alive_. If they had taken him to surgery, it meant there was still hope, though the very word _ surgery _ meant that something had gone very wrong. Levine had broken something in Morse that required skill and precision to put back together. Maybe several somethings. And Thursday was still standing here without any clues as to what had been done to his lad.

_ Ask the doctor _ they’d told him. Unless something went very, very wrong very quickly, it could be hours before a doctor would be out to see him. Thursday knew how this went, he’d sat many of these vigils before. _ Too many over Morse _ a nagging voice in his head suggested. He ignored it. He’d gladly sit through a thousand more of these vigils if only Morse would come through on the other side--and that he would still be _ Morse_.

There was always the worry, lurking behind every one of Thursday’s thoughts, that Morse’s face and hands and body might come through whatever trials the world threw at him, but that his essence--the very thing that made him _ Morse _\-- might be snuffed out. Thursday had seen that light flicker on the rooftop as they hauled Mason Gull away. He’d seen it dim after Whitney and the shooting. It had vanished entirely when Morse had also vanished after prison. How many more times might that light stutter beneath the heavy winds that blew against him before one day it wouldn’t return?

Thursday allowed himself a deep breath before shoving aside the doors that led to the surgery waiting room. It was like all the others he had paced the length of, countless times. White and stark and _ cheery _ in that faux-hope kind of way. As if pastel flowers and curtains could make you forget that while you sat _ here_, someone you cared about could be dying back _ there _.

The room was empty, save for one man. First glance said he was waiting for word as well. A second glance--with years of experience behind it--told a different story.

The man was tall and broad shouldered, but those shoulders were stooped with the weight of something he would rather forget. The man’s suit jacket lay off to the side, rumpled and dirty. Blood stained the front of the man’s shirt and blood had been smeared on his pants. He stared at his clean hands as if he could still see the rusty evidence of another’s life force in the whorls of his fingers.

Thursday knew that look. And he knew who the man was. Not his name, of course, but why he was here.

This man had found Morse. This man had his own bagman somewhere, probably safe. This man knew what it was like to have someone under your care come into harm for your own actions. This man knew...what there was to know.

The man looked up at them, and recognition sparked in his face. He stood and extended a hand.

“DI Thursday, I presume?” Thursday took the hand, trying not to think of Morse’s blood on it. “DI Shearer. I found your man.”

Thursday dropped the hand with a curt nod. “Tell me.”

Shearer dropped his gaze to the floor. The flicker of nausea that passed over his face did not escape Thursday’s notice. “Perhaps...we ought to sit down.”

Thursday felt his lips twitch into a sneer. _ Tell me _ he wanted to shout. Tell me _ now _ . _ I know the bastard, I know what he could have done. Nothing you say--nothing--could be worse than what I have seen_.

Except that it could. Because those bodies, those broken men in his mind’s eye, those were men he hadn’t known. This was _ Morse._

So he nodded. Maybe it was weakness. Maybe he was old. Maybe he was going soft. Or maybe the truth was that Morse had long since ceased to be just his _ man _ and had become something more. Something that he’d sworn after Carter that he could never have again. Something much closer to _ family _ and _ protection _ and _ son _ than he cared to admit. 

Strange stood awkwardly behind them, and Thursday didn’t have the strength to worry about him. He was a copper in his own right. He could go get them a cup of tea or sit down or find some excuse to leave if he wanted. Thursday just needed to _ know_.

“Tell me, Shearer.” Thursday rumbled. 

Uncertainty passed over the man’s face, and Thursday knew he would try to lie, to soften the blow. He didn’t need that. He needed honesty. He needed to stop wondering.

“I know the man who did this, Shearer,” Thursday heard himself say. He ignored the gravelly tone in his voice, the way it spoke of fear and worry and hatred. “I’ve tracked him for years. I’ve picked up the pieces he left behind in London. I _ know _ him.” He met Shearer’s eyes with as much calm as he could muster. “Whatever you saw, I’ve seen worse. Whatever you have to tell me, I’ve imagined worse. I need to know. Now.”

Shearer swallowed uneasily. Then he nodded.

“I’ve seen enough in my time out here. There was just something…” the man shook his head. “He didn’t deserve that. I don’t know your lad, but I can see it in him. Whatever this is about...he didn’t deserve it.” Shearer bowed his head and cursed under his breath.

“Tell. Me.” Thursday’s hands gripped the chair underneath him; he was trying to ground himself, to keep himself from storming through the doors at the back of the room. He needed to _ know _.

Shearer took a deep breath. Thursday could see his eyes harden as he switched back into the _ Inspector _ and out of the _ man. _ Thursday had done that before, felt the change within himself as he stopped seeing the victim as a _ person _ and forced himself to see them as _ evidence_.

“He’d been beaten. Severely. I can’t be sure what all injuries he sustained from that, but I think they may have broken his nose. His chest was...black and blue, all over. They’d ripped his shirt off somewhere along the line.” Shearer swallowed again, his eyes darting to the floor. “He’d been stabbed. A few times. And it looked…” the man cleared his throat uncomfortably. “It looked as if...as if they had...twisted the knife. In him. _God_.”   
Thursday swallowed heavily against the nausea. He’d seen that before as well, on bodies that Levine had left him. He knew, too, that was what had broken Morse. The begging, the whimpers...that..._damnit_.

“There’s more,” he finally forced himself to say.

Shearer’s eyes flashed up to Thursday’s and he nodded. “When we found him...he’d passed out. Not sure when. His left hand was still handcuffed to the chair behind him. His right…” Shearer ran a shaking hand through his hair. Thursday felt something cold and sharp bury itself in his heart. “He’d been stabbed, Thursday. In the hand. They’d just...left him there. With the knife...still in him. I’ve never seen…” Shearer passed a hand over his mouth and launched himself from his chair. He stood, back to Thursday, with his chest heaving with the effort it took not to vomit.

The room darkened around Thursday. He felt himself disconnect from his surroundings as the white of the waiting room transformed into the darkness of that warehouse.

He could see the whole thing, played out in washed out browns and blacks and greys. He could see Levine’s face, smooth and calm as he buried his knife into Morse. He could hear Morse’s screams again as he writhed against the blade. He could see the tears he knew to be there running down Morse’s face. He could see Levine grin as he finally got what he wanted.

He didn’t want to see what came next, but his mind supplied it anyhow. How Levine would have uncuffed Morse, pulled his arm out onto the table. How Morse would have fought, bleeding and in pain, against whatever might come next. Had he known? Had Levine told him? Had that sharp mind pieced together the puzzle? Or had the blow come unexpected? Had the knife sliced through skin and bone and nerves before Morse even had a chance to prepare?

He heard that scream again, echoing in his mind. And this time he _ saw _ it. He saw Morse’s body jolt, saw his eyes widen in fear and _ agony_. He saw blood and tears and sweat. He saw Levine walk away. He saw Morse as he sat there, staring at his hand and feeling the pain and the blood and the fear.

He saw it all.

And he cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I actually have to go to work now. More later!
> 
> Thanks for your commentssss I love them!


	4. A Father's Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, he wouldn't let Morse down. This time, he would be there until Morse had healed in body and spirit.

In the end, Morse was in surgery for hours. Each minute that ticked by, though, was another minute that no one came to tell Thursday that he had lost his bagman. He would have gladly sat in that uncomfortable waiting room, drinking lukewarm tea, for _ days _ if it had meant Morse would walk out of that hospital whole and hale. 

Thursday would never be able to remember those hours very clearly. He remembered calling Win. He remembered trying to sand down the hard edges of the truth. He remembered her crying anyhow, begging him to bring Morse back to theirs. He didn’t remember DI Shearer leaving, nor where Strange wandered off to after Shearer had told his story. He remembered pacing. He remembered needing very much to yell, to hit something, to rage against the injustice that Levine had got his hands on Morse.

He remembered one thing clearly: fear. Fear that hung like a thick fog, obscuring his vision and his reason. Fear that coalesced into a ghostly pale hand with long fingers. His mind’s eye watched that hand as it twirled pencils, tangled in copper hair, rubbed nervously at the back of a pale neck. He could see as that hand reached out to shake his own, as it calmed a frightened child, as it steered Joan out of danger.

Those cold, ghostly fingers wrapped themselves around Thursday’s heart; it felt as if they would squeeze the very life out of him. He wondered if he would ever see those fingers move in time to some strange opera again, or peck awkwardly at a typewriter. They weren’t something he’d ever paid attention to before, Morse’s hands. He had more to worry about--teaching the lad proper police work and how not to jump in front of danger. But now that he was faced with the possibility that one of his oldest enemies might have...might have _ destroyed _ part of Morse...

And Thursday remembered _ praying_. He didn’t know to whom he was praying, nor if anyone was listening. But he prayed. He prayed that those minutes that passed meant that Morse was being stitched back together. He prayed that whoever held the knife might find a way to repair the damage that had been done. He prayed that...that _ Morse _ might come back.

The waiting had seemed endless, torturous, exhausting. But when those doors opened and a tired-looking doctor walked through, Thursday almost wished he had had more time to prepare himself. Because now he would know--finally and irrevocably--what damage had been done to Morse.

When those words finally came--_ He’s pulled through, Inspector _\-- Thursday felt himself sag into his chair. Some other day, some other time, some other man--he might have had more pride. He might have stood tall, nodded, taken it all in stride. But not Morse, and not now. Maybe when he’d first met the lad, before he’d had time to take him under his wing and into his home. By now, Morse was as much a part of his family as Sam or Joan and he couldn’t well pretend otherwise. 

The rest of the doctor’s speech had stuck in fragments--_ internal bleeding, fixed; severe blood loss, caught in time; tendon damage; miraculously no nerve damage; traumatic stab wound, infection risk. _ The words rattled around in Thursday’s brain, bouncing off of the one word that mattered: _ alive _.

But still a small, ghostly voice insisted: _ for how long_. It clamored for attention until Thursday was forced to ask.

The doctor gave him a smile--the first genuine display of hope that Thursday had seen in hours.

“Your boy has been through the ringer, Inspector. I won’t lie. But he’s a fighter, I can tell.” Thursday smiled a bit at that--_ yes, he was that. _ “There’s some risk for infection, but he’ll be on strong antibiotics to fight that. Somehow, the knife managed not to sever anything irreparable. He’ll some intensive work to regain full use of his hand, but I believe it can be done.” The man glanced between Thursday and Strange. “I’ve no reason to doubt that, barring any unexpected complications, he’ll make a full recovery.”

_ Full recovery_.

Thursday let the words wash over him. They weren’t enough to remove all traces of fear and blood and worry from his mind, but they were enough to soothe the turmoil in his heart. 

_ When can I see him? _

That was all that mattered now. The only way to scrub away the rest of the stains that Levine’s torturous mind had worked on Thursday was to _ see _ Morse for himself. He hadn’t laid eyes on the lad since this all began, and Thursday was a man of hard evidence. He couldn’t trust just words. He needed to see Morse, to hear the reassuring sound of a heart monitor, to rest his hand on Morse’s shoulder and make sure he was _ real _.

_ Soon _ was the answer, and it had to be good enough.

* * *

It wasn’t the first time Thursday had stood over Morse as he lay in hospital. But it was by far the worst. 

Blood hung from a bag by his bedside, slowly replacing that which had been spilled so mercilessly. Medicine hung next to it, doing what Morse’s own body could not as it sought to fight off infection. Bruises littered Morse’s face, dark and violent in the way they stood out against his near-translucent skin. White blankets hid the rest of the bandages that Thursday knew to be there; he wasn’t sure whether to be grateful that he didn’t have to _ see _ , or curse the fact that he still didn’t _ know _. Morse’s right hand was obscured by pristine white bandages; only the very tips of his fingers could be seen. The bandages extended down his arm in an effort to keep him from moving it while his nerves and skin and bone tried to knit themselves back together.

Thursday was always struck by how innocent and fragile Morse looked when he was sleeping. The white, sterile sheets and medicine-induced stillness only served to make it more pronounced. Morse was a man in his own right, a copper well on his way towards greatness, but he still managed to look like a wayward boy in the unfriendly fluorescent lights. 

It unnerved Thursday, how unlike himself Morse looked in that room. His sharp features softened in sleep, his usual sneer melted into something too gentle and too innocent. Thursday supposed some would say it was an improvement; he disagreed. Somewhere along the lines, Morse’s razor-edged intelligence and prickly demeanor had worked its way under Thursday’s skin. He dreaded the day he might look into Morse’s eyes and find him subdued, cowed by the onslaught of the world.

The neat way Morse lay in the bed, as if he were comfortable for the first time in his life, was also all wrong. Morse always seemed to be twitching about, pacing and fiddling and muttering. He never relaxed, never allowed himself to melt into a comfortable chair or couch. Oh, he might slouch--but it was more out of a misguided attempt to fit in rather than actual relaxation. That too was a part of Morse, something Thursday looked for and felt wrong-footed by its absence. He lay back against the bed, tucked in neatly under the blankets, as if he were willing to stay until healed. A conscious Morse--the Morse Thursday desperately needed to see--would never acquiesce so calmly.

Morse’s hair--disheveled on the best of days-- seemed to be the only part of Morse that remained. It lay spread out, the only shock of color in the pale room. Thursday found himself faced with the strangely paternal urge to smooth it down, the way he had with Sam and Joan when they’d been ill. He wondered if Morse would care, if it would be overstepping his bounds as Morse’s governor. 

Thursday stared at Morse for a few more moments. He watched the steady rise and fall of his chest and listened to the even sound of the heart monitor. He let the stillness of the room settle over him. Then he reached out a gentle hand and smoothed back Morse’s unruly curls.

He decided that just this once, the universe owed him something. He’d been at Carter’s bedside, and he’d sat at Morse’s more times than he would like to count. He’d watched men live and die under his command. He’d heard the screams of his men and he’d seen their wounds. Just once, just bloody _ once _ he was going to give in to that fathers instinct that he could never quite ignore, no matter how hard he tried. Just this once he was going to try to save one of his men.

Morse would need help, coming back from this. The doctor had said as much about his body, and Thursday knew enough about his mind. He’d failed Morse before, and he’d failed Carter. He wasn’t losing another one. Not this time.

Thursday smoothed the blanket over Morse’s chest once more before sitting down in the stiff chair next to his bed. He would stay here until Morse woke up, and he would stay next to the lad until the fire was back in his eyes and that bandaged hand was holding a pencil to a crossword again.

Just let them _ try _ and stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes...I know. I added another chapter. I"M SORRY I just....had another idea.  
Also. This probably won't get finished today? My body has suddenly decided that it hates me and I'm unsure why. If i can sleep this off, I'll get another chapter out tonight. If not....well, TOMORROW then!


	5. Dream Weaver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thursday knew he didn't deserve Morse's trust, not after all that had happened. And yet he had it, somehow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What am I doing with chapter titles? Honestly, who knows. Loosely related song-ish? Sure. Works for me. *glares at self*

The first face that Morse saw upon waking up was not the familiar one of Fred Thursday. His bleary eyes focused in on a stern, strange face. Sluggish senses registered strong hands on his arms and a prickling sensation in one hand. Armed with only memories of _ fear _ and _ anger _ and _ knives _ and the pain that seemed to be everywhere and nowhere at once, Endeavour Morse drew together a hasty--and incorrect-- conclusion. And he _ fought_. 

* * *

Thursday had moved quietly to the door when the doctor entered. He knew enough about how these things went to give the man room without being asked. The less of a bother he was, the higher chance he had of them allowing him to stay in the room without a fight. He _ would _ stay in the room, no matter what, but he rather preferred to not have to fight them tooth and nail. He knew the doctors and nurses only wanted what was best for Morse, and he respected that. He just needed them to understand that Morse was never quite comfortable waking up in unfamiliar surroundings. 

He was staring pensively out the door when he heard the sharp intake of breath that signaled Morse had not only woken up, but woken up _ afraid_. Thursday was halfway across the room when his mind caught up to what was happening on the bed.

Morse was _ fighting_. His good arm flailed wildly while the doctor held on desperately to the bandaged hand. Thursday knew the man was just trying to keep Morse from doing more damage to it, but he also knew Morse. He knew what had happened the last time someone had touched his hand, and he knew Morse had no idea that he was no longer in danger. 

It was Morse’s voice, however, that felt like a blow to his ribs--knocking the air from his lungs and the ground from under his feet. 

“_Please---no, stop! Please! Don’t…don’t hurt me...not anymore...please, just leave...leave me alone...please!” _

Morse’s movements were slow and weak; he was in no danger of harming the doctor. But any movement could tear at the delicate stitches that held him together, and that was a risk Thursday wasn’t willing to take. Thursday bolted to Morse’s bedside. He steadied Morse with a firm hand on his shoulder, and caught Morse’s face with the other. Gently, he turned Morse to face him.

“Morse! Morse--_ Endeavour! _ Lad, look at me. _ Look at me!_” 

Morse’s eyes were glassy and lost--_ just the medicine _ , Thursday told himself--but they focused on Thursday’s face for an instant; it was enough. Morse stilled, instinctively curling towards the only thing in the room that made any _ sense_.

“Sir?”

“It’s me, lad, it’s me. It’s alright.” Thursday dropped his hands to Morse’s shoulders, but didn’t back away.

“Sir...please…” Morse looked up at him, pain and fear in his eyes. He glanced sideways at the doctor, then quickly shut his eyes and pulled his hand weakly. “Please...make them stop. I can’t...I can’t take it. Please.”

Thursday clenched one fist together, his nails biting into his palms. He focused on the pain there to take his mind off the overwhelming agony that Morse’s words brought him.

“Morse, you’re in the hospital. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you here. Alright?” Morse whimpered, angling his body farther away from the doctor. Thursday rubbed one hand on Morse’s back, trying to convey _ calm _ and _ safe _ and _ protected._

The doctor--bless the man-- seemed to be able to read the situation well enough. He gently released Morse’s hand with a slight nod at Thursday. Morse whimpered and pulled the limb to his chest. He wrapped his other arm protectively around it and drew his knees up to his chest. The movement must have aggravated his other injuries because he hissed sharply.

Thursday sighed and sat down gently on the bed, keeping up a slow, soothing rhythm on Morse’s back “It’s alright, Morse. You’re safe. It’s alright.”

The doctor shifted behind them, and Thursday glanced over his shoulder. “I’ll send a nurse in to check on him every half hour.” Morse squeaked at the man’s voice and curled closer to Thursday. The doctor frowned sympathetically. “He may...respond like this again, until the sedatives have run their course. He recognizes you, though. That’s a good thing. Sometimes if patients can’t find equilibrium, we have to keep them sedated for longer.” The man took a deep breath. “If you don’t mind staying, it may help him along.”

Thursday did his best not to laugh; as if they could get him to leave. “He’s my bagman, doctor, and he’s not got much in the way of family. I’ll not be leaving until he can.”

The doctor nodded. “Good. I’ll be on my way then. See that he doesn’t jostle that arm much.” With that, the man withdrew quietly. 

Thursday stayed there, with Morse trembling under his hands, until the lad’s breathing evened out and his tense muscles relaxed into sleep again.

* * *

The second, third, fourth and fifth times that Morse woke up transpired similar to the first. The unfamiliar faces and smells and sights and feelings sent him into a panic, and he fought back against whatever was closest to him (including a rather threatening pillow at one point). Comforting hands and a low voice would bring him back, each time taking fewer moments to reach him. After the first panicked awakening, Thursday hadn’t wandered far from Morse’s bed, and after the second time, he’d learn to sense when the lad was waking up. By the fourth time, he was already at Morse’s side when the lad opened his eyes.

The sixth time was different. Thursday had fallen into a fitful sleep after the last battle with Morse. He missed the slight movement that meant Morse was coming around, and he didn’t hear the hitch in Morse’s steady breathing. This time, though, as Morse stared up at the strange white ceiling and listened to the odd _ beep...beep _ ... _ beep _ coming from somewhere near him, other memories filtered in. Memories of a familiar face and gentle words. Memories of _ safe _ and _ comfort _. Memories of hands, like his father’s in their strength but like his mother’s in their tenderness.

This time, the fear was tempered with just enough _ safety _ that Morse allowed himself to breathe...once, twice, three times. Awareness washed over him with each breath... _ walls, curtains, bed, blanket, pillow, bandages _ and finally _ oh, hospital_.

Morse hated hospitals. Hated being in them, hated being near them, hated the smell and the sound and the meaning behind them. They usually filled him with a deep, old fear--one that had begun when he was young and hadn’t gone away. Hospitals meant illness and pain and death. Usually. But this time, Morse couldn’t find that old fear. It was lost, buried somewhere under the terror that had been the last twenty-four hours. This time, the only thing he felt was an overwhelming sense of relief.

Relief that the world around him wasn’t dark and full of knives and angry faces. Relief that he wasn’t _ alone _ in a room full of hatred and fear and torture. Relief that the surface beneath him was soft, not hard. Relief that there was no one standing over him, laughing at his pain, prodding him to see just how far he could bend before he broke.

Morse closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He didn’t know much--how he’d gotten here or what had happened--but he knew that for right now, he was _ safe_. He wasn’t quite sure _ how _ he knew that, but he was grateful for the feeling nonetheless.

His eyes flickered open again, and he decided to brave an investigation of the room. His eyes found the heart monitor, the IV pole, and a wall. Turning the other way, he took in his bandaged hand, a dim light, and _ Thursday_.

_ Thursday? _

He must have said the word out loud because Thursday’s eyes flew open. Thursday was on his feet before Morse could react, one hand coming to rest on Morse’s shoulder and the other gently pressing his injured hand to the bed.

“It’s alright, Morse.” His voice was low and gravelly, and Morse wondered how long he’d been here.

“Sir?” Morse managed. “Sir...why...why are you here?”

Thursday sucked in a sharp breath. “Morse. You know where you are?”

Morse nodded slowly. “Hospital.” His eyes took in Thursday’s disheveled clothes and hair. “You...how long have I been here?”

Thursday closed his eyes. When he opened them again, Morse could see fatigue, worry, and _ relief _ . “That doesn’t matter, lad.” Thursday sunk slowly onto the bed, never once loosening his grip on Morse. “What matters is that you’re _ awake._” The hand on Morse’s shoulder tightened. “And _ alive.” _

The raw emotion in Thursday’s voice loosened something in Morse. He felt himself relax back into the bed, his muddled thoughts receding into the back of his mind. He could figure things out later--what had happened, why Thursday was _ here _ and not _ there_. For now, it was enough that he wasn’t alone. And no one was hurting him.

Morse nodded slowly. “I am. Alive.” He let out a laugh, and tried to ignore how hysterical he sounded. His eyes flickered up to Thursday’s. “Thank you, sir.”

A peculiar expression crossed Thursday’s face. “For what, Morse?”

Morse could feel exhaustion tugging at him. He vaguely remembered the last few times he’d woken, and how he’d felt as if someone were violently shoving him back into the realm of dreams. This time felt like a summons from a friend--_ come, rest a while_. He struggled to open his eyes, trying to hold Thursday’s gaze.

“For saving me.” The words came out softer than he intended, his tired body asking him for a chance to sleep. He missed the stricken look on Thursday’s face. He only knew that those hands--strong like his father’s, kind like his mother’s--were still with him. And that he was _ safe_.

* * *

_ Morse was awake_. Morse was _ awake _ and _ alive _ and _ lucid. _

Thursday stayed by Morse’s side longer this time, just watching the lad sleep. He was _ Morse _ again, thank God--half curled on his side with an expression somewhere between _ relaxed _ and _ crossword puzzles _ on his face. No more drug-induced false-peace nor terror-laced nightmares. Just rest; just what he needed.

And yet Thursday was haunted. Morse had looked at him with a trust he didn’t deserve. He had looked at Thursday as if he were responsible for the lad’s rescue. _ God-- _ Morse had _ thanked _ him for saving him from Levine.

Thursday had done no such thing. Morse had been completely at the mercy-- or lack thereof-- of Levine. Thursday’s intervention had nothing to do with it. He’d not had any ounce of power over Levine, he’d not made one single move to save Morse. He couldn’t have. Had Levine decided to slit Morse’s throat, there would have been nothing Thursday could have done.

That was what bothered him, if he were honest with himself. The fact that he’d had absolutely no control over Morse’s safety. Always before he’d had a bargaining chip...something to trade, something to fight with.

Not this time. Just luck, pure luck.

But Morse _ trusted _ him. He could sense it in the lad, the way he’d relaxed when he’d picked up on Thursday’s own relief. So long as Thursday was there, Morse believed he was safe. It made Thursday ache--that almost childlike faith in a man so faithless and jaded. Maybe it was the drugs; maybe it wasn’t. Either way, Thursday knew he didn’t deserve it.

Thursday stood, taking a moment to pull the blankets back up over Morse. He didn’t deserve Morse’s trust, not after all that had happened. But maybe he could earn it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One chapter finished...another one added to the queue. *sigh*
> 
> I'M SORRY. Okay so I've broken two promises now. It's longer than 3 chapters (hopefully that's not as much of a problem...) and it's not done by Sunday. That'll teach me to promise things (although to be fair, there was a migraine or two that threw a spanner in the works...) However, I am holding strong to the promise to not write anything else until this one is done.
> 
> We are nearing the end though--unless these two throw something else at me. Thanks for reading and thanks for your comments!! Let me know if there's anything particular you want to see in the last two chapters! :)


	6. Take the Home from the Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why couldn't Morse see that he wasn't worth less, just because he wasn't Thursday's flesh and blood?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Ze Depression decided to ramp itself up enough that writing was Not An Option.

Morse slept through the rest of the night, and much of the following morning. The few times that he did wake up, he seemed to have retained most of his hard-won lucidity. The doctors assured Thursday that Morse would sleep for a while yet. Thursday had reluctantly accepted their directions to a place where he could find a room and hot shower. 

Thursday refused to leave until Strange had returned--with one of the local coppers. He wasn’t taking any chances. Levine hadn’t killed Morse outright, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try; men rarely left his presence alive. With a hulking plain-clothes man stationed outside, Thursday left Strange in charge and hurried out of the hospital before he could change his mind.

Thursday didn’t want to leave, not with Morse so vulnerable. But experience had taught him that fatigue made him a poor nursemaid. He hadn’t had much to eat in the last twenty-odd hours, and his clothes were rumpled and dirty. It must have been Win’s influence over the years, but he had learned the wonders that a warm meal and hot showers could do for a man. And he knew, too, that what Morse needed most now--whether he knew it himself or not--was a strong shoulder to lean on.

He didn’t know how much Morse would remember when the sedatives finally wore off. The memories had lurked in his eyes and his voice during the night--each time he woke he had looked as if he expected to come face to face with Levine’s knives once again. Whether or not those nightmares would fade with the medication, Thursday didn’t know. 

Levine’s voice still echoed in Thursday’s mind, thought. It was overlaid with the sound of Morse’s pain, and a constant stream of _ what-ifs_. As much as he was loathe to leave Morse alone in that hospital bed, he knew he needed to clear his own mind. Morse would need someone to lean on, whether he would be aware of it or not, and the last thing he needed was a guv’nor still seething with rage and terror.

Thursday let the hot water numb the prickles of anxiety that rippled along his skin. He scrubbed away at the invisible blood on his skin and let the steady sound of the water drown out the screams. He focused on the flavor of the food--lackluster as it was-- instead of the taste of the bile that rose at the thought of Morse’s injuries. And then he squared his shoulders and walked back into Morse’s room.

* * *

Morse was asleep when he returned. Strange reported that he’d only woken once and had appeared to recognize both where he was and who was with him. 

“He looked around a bit, sir. I think he was looking for you.” Strange frowned. “He didn’t ask, though. Looked almost as if he didn’t expect you to be here, honestly.”

Thursday sighed. Of course the lad wouldn’t expect anyone to wait with him. How long had they worked together, and he still didn’t seem to understand that Thursday would always come after him.

“Alright, Strange. Good enough. Why don’t you go off and get yourself a kip and something to eat?”

Strange nodded, but seemed reluctant to leave. He walked towards the door, but paused before leaving. “I’m glad he’s still with us, sir.” His eyes flicked to the bed. “It isn’t right, what they did to him.” Thursday saw his jaw clench. “It isn’t right.”

Thursday stared down at the pale form on the bed. “No, sergeant. It isn’t.” He glanced up to Strange, well knowing the cold anger that was etched across his own face. “And don’t you think for a moment that I intend to let them get away with it.” His hands curled into fists at his side. “I’ll hunt the bastard to the ends of the earth if I have to.”

Strange stared at him for a moment longer. “We all will, sir.” 

Then he was gone, leaving Thursday alone with nothing but the reassuring sound of Morse’s heartbeat to keep him company. 

* * *

Morse slept for a few more hours, giving Thursday enough time for a short kip and a meander to the canteen. When he returned, the nurses had Morse propped up a bit. Thursday paused in the door, taking a moment to steady himself with the sight of Morse--upright, alive, and awake. He was staring out the window, wide blue eyes lost in some reverie that only he could see; Thursday hoped he wasn’t remembering.

Finally he cleared his throat and stepped into the room. His sharp eyes didn’t miss the way Morse jumped, nor the way he tucked his right hand to his chest, covering it with his left. Morse’s shoulders relaxed upon seeing Thursday in the door, however, and he gave Thursday a shy smile.

“Sir,” he murmured. Suddenly his gaze sharpened. “Wait, no, sir--why are you here? You can’t be here! You--you have to be with them!” Morse struggled upright, his body tense and eyes darting around the room. He hissed as the frantic movements tugged on healing wounds, but made as if to clamber out of the bed.

Thursday was at his side in an instant, steadying hands on his shoulders. “Easy lad, take it easy. Settle down, Morse.” Gently, he pushed Morse back into the pillows, holding him until Morse sagged weakly back. “That’s better. You’re in no shape to go moving about, Morse.”

Thursday straightened up, staring down at Morse. His sharp face was still full of nervous energy, though he lay weakly against the pillows as if they were all that kept him upright. With what he’d been through, they probably were.

Morse shook his head. “No, sir, you can’t be here! You can’t! You just--”

“Morse!” Thursday held up a hand. Morse clamped his lips shut abruptly, staring wide-eyed at the raised hand. Thursday swallowed hard at the way Morse’s breath hitched as he unconsciously pulled back. _ Those bastards_. He lowered his hand, and perched himself on the edge of the bed. _ Less threatening, Fred _. He tried again, with a calmer tone. “Morse, what are you going on about?”

Morse’s startled eyes tracked back to Thursday’s face and he sucked in a steadying breath. “That man...Levine. He threatened you all. To me. He said...he said…” Morse bit his lip and shook his head violently. “You’ve got to be with your family, sir! You can’t be here. They need you, sir!”

Thursday sighed. “Morse, I left them with police protection as soon as...as soon as I knew.” _ And called every few hours_. “They’re safe enough.” His eyes roamed over Morse’s battered body. “Besides, I know Levine. He plays by rules--not very good ones, but rules all the same. You’re his calling card. He won’t make another move until I do.”

Morse looked anything but appeased. “Still, sir. They’re your family. They need you.”

“Oh, and what was I supposed to do with you, then?” Thursday shoved himself roughly off the bed. He shouldn’t shout at Morse, he knew that. But the lad’s perpetual inability to care even a little about himself could rile him on a good day. These last several hours had been anything _ but _ good, and Morse’s dismissal of his own injuries burned. “Leave you in the hands of whatever might count for a police force out here? Abandon you here to find your own way back?”

“I’m not completely helpless.” Morse glared at him, and it did Thursday good to see the fire flickering in his eyes. It was weak, but it was there. “I could have managed.” 

Thursday sighed. “No, Morse, you couldn’t have.” Morse opened his mouth to reply, but Thursday pushed on before he had the chance. “And I wasn’t about to leave you in the hands of whatever counts as a police force around here.” He stared at Morse for a moment longer before shaking his head. “I’m your governor, Morse. You know that.”

Anger still burned in Morse’s eyes, but Thursday could tell it was not longer directed at him. 

“Still, sir. He threatened them. Your family.” Morse’s good hand curled into a fist. “You can’t let him get away with that.”

Thursday tugged over a chair and sat down wearily. _ He threatened your family_. Was the lad just going to avoid the fact that Levine had _ more than threatened _him?

“What do you call this, then, Morse?” Thursday asked gently, nodding at Morse’s prone form. He didn’t want to press Morse too soon, but he needed to know.

A peculiar expression crossed Morse’s face, one that Thursday couldn’t even begin to decipher. Then it was gone, hidden behind Morse’s righteous anger at Levine’s threats. Thursday felt worry take root within him--the lad couldn’t hide from this, and if he tried, it might just consume him out.

“He...he’s just trying to get to you, sir.” Morse’s eyes flicked down to his hands. His gaze rested on the thick bandages for only a second before glancing away. It had been enough--Thursday had caught a glimpse of misery in those wide eyes. 

“Get to me he did, lad.” 

Morse glanced back to him, fire burning once again. “You can’t let him, sir! You have to--”

“I know bloody well what I have to do, Morse.” Thursday did his best to keep his voice level, but Morse still recoiled from the venom in his words. “I’ve been chasing Levine for the better part of my career.” Morse’s eyes narrowed as he watched Thursday. “It started in London, but I lost the cases when I came here. Until he moved.”

Morse scowled. “I didn’t mean to…” His voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “I tried not to...worry you. Over the call. It just…” He took a shaky breath, clearly trying to contain what Thursday knew to be a seething mess of hurt and fear and anger. “It got a bit...much.”

Thursday felt the knife that had pierced his skin at the first pained cry over that poor connection twist violently. It tore at him, to see Morse trying to maintain that facade. Yet he had no idea how to break through it. 

“Morse…” He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t sit here and _ pretend _ that any of this was normal or okay. He couldn’t say something trite like _ It could have been worse_. Maybe Morse could, but he couldn’t. It could have--he knew that well enough. But it was _ Morse. _

Thursday heaved himself to his feet and paced towards the window. He stared out onto the gray day, trying to find the words. “Morse, I followed Levine. For a long time. Always arrived too late, but always before the pathologist.” His hands clenched into fists as those images flickered through his mind again--all with Morse’s face this time. “I know what he does.” It dawned on him, then, that Morse _ didn’t _ know. Morse...Morse had no idea what could have happened, what Thursday imagined.

Thursday ran his hand over his face. “Levine is cruel, Morse. He pushed people until they break, and he doesn’t care how far he has to go. I’ve seen...so much blood at his hands.” He straightened, refusing to look at Morse. If he turned back now, he knew he would break as well. Even he had his limits, and this was very nearly one of them. “Just knowing that he had you, Morse. It was enough. Had you been silent…” He hated himself for the very thought. As much as Morse’s cries had wounded him, at least they mean he had been _ alive_.

“I’m sorry, sir.”  
_Damn him._ Thursday rounded on Morse, anger surging through his veins again.

“Don’t you _ dare _ apologize for any of this. He hurt you, lad.” Thursday stood at the foot of Morse’s bed, trying to catch his breath. “He hurt you. To get to me. God forgive me.” Thursday felt the fight seep out of him, leaving an overwhelming sadness in its wake.

The room was silent for too long, but still Thursday couldn’t face Morse. Some part of him knew that his own inability to say what he felt was playing into Morse’s silence, but he couldn’t find the words. He wasn’t even sure what he wanted to say, not really. Not beyond _ I’m sorry_, _ this was wrong, _ and _ let Win and I look after you. _

“I chose this life, sir.” Morse’s low voice broke him out of his misery. “You didn’t force me into it. I made that decision. I knew--” his voice hitched here, and Thursday cursed silently. “I knew the risks.” _ Not this one, you didn’t. _ “It’s...it’s your family, sir. That...he shouldn’t have--”

Thursday raised his head. Morse stopped talking, and Thursday could only guess what his face looked like.

“He should never have touched you, Morse.” Thursday swallowed heavily. “You’re a copper, and you’re my bagman. The moment he laid one finger on you, he crossed the line. The rest of this?” He let his eyes flick over the wounds, visible and invisible. “None of this should have happened.”

Morse looked as if he were going to argue, and Thursday couldn’t take it. Couldn’t take Morse thinking that he ranked lower than his family--that a _ threat _ to them was worth more than the blood that had been taken from him.

“I thought he had Sam. At first.” Thursday ground out. “And then I realized it was you.” Morse’s eyes dropped, and the look on his face nearly drove Thursday to his knees. How could he think he was worth so little? “Dammit, Morse, I tried just as hard to get to you as I would have Sam. I _ begged _ Levine to let you alone, same as I’d have done for Sam.” Morse’s head snapped up, eyes wide in shock. “Your life...your safety...it’s not somehow _ less _ just because you’re not my Win, nor my children.” 

Morse stared at him, completely frozen and silent. Thursday wondered, not for the first time, what kind of childhood the lad had had. That is father had not been very kind nor loving, he knew. But Morse never seemed to have any idea of how much those around him did actually care for him. Certainly, he wasn’t the easiest to get along with, but he was a _ person _.

Thursday sighed and moved to lay a hand on Morse’s shoulder. “I mean that, lad.” He looked down at Morse, his gaze softening. “Get some rest. We’ll talk about all of this later. Just...just know that, Morse. This--” Thursday gestured at Morse’s bruises. “This isn’t _ nothing, _ and it doesn’t just vanish because you’re my bagman and not my son.” Morse glanced away, and Thursday could sense him retreating in on himself again. “Rest, alright?”

Morse nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

Thursday adjusted Morse’s pillows and helped pull the blanket up to Morse’s chin. As Morse lay back, eyes closing almost of their own accord, Thursday settled back down in his chair. He might not be able to _ tell _ Morse what he needed to hear, but he could certainly show him. Besides, Thursday had no intention of being far from Morse until Levine was in prison or in the ground. If Thursday were the one to take the man in, he knew quite well there would be no prison cell needed.

Not after this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait. I'm not super happy with this chapter, but thanks to fitzrove, I decided not to delete the whole thing.
> 
> Also, I managed to write a chapter without adding a new one! Yay! I'm planning on the next chapter being the last one...
> 
> ...for now.  
I have some vague intentions of following up with this? Because Levine will still be "out there" at the ending of the next chapter and I just...I think he needs to be dealt with? It might be a while before I get to that--especially as I have no idea what would even happen.
> 
> If you have any thoughts--about what should happen in a sequel, or any general prompts--hit me up in the comments or come and find me in Tumblr land! I'm imaginationtherapy over there and I'm trying to post bits and pieces of my (long list of) WIPs.
> 
> Okay, I'm out for now. Expect the last chapter sometime in the next 24 hours...I think. :) Thanks for coming along for the ride! Your comments mean the world to me!


	7. Only Human

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morse goes home, despite Thursday's protests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Sorry for the delay! I was away at a Renaissance Fair this weekend and didn't have too much time to write. (It was super fun, 10/10 would do again) (also--I bought TEA and I'm excited)

Hours and days passed by as Morse’s body slowly healed. His skin bound itself back together, wounds closing over and pain slowly decreasing. When he had healed to the doctor’s satisfaction, he was transferred to the Radcliffe. Thursday was relieved to have Morse back in his jurisdiction, and also grateful for the chance to return to work. He hand picked several officers to guard Morse’s door at all times; he didn’t trust just any coppers, not with this.

Morse put on a brave face, the only hints to what had happened coming in brief flashes of anger, occasional stubborn silences, and barely concealed flinches. Neither of them mentioned the nightmares that clearly woke Morse up more than once a night.

Thursday knew that Morse was hiding. He was hiding behind crosswords and irritated grumbles and one-word answers. He was hiding behind lukewarm cups of tea and hospital gowns. He was hiding well, but Thursday knew what to look for. He’d seen many a man come back after ordeals like Morse’s. He knew the signs, he knew what was lurking just behind that thin veneer of _ just fine._

He could see it in the way Morse jumped when someone moved too fast. He could see it in the way Morse’s eyes tracked the doctor’s raised hands and the way he flinched when anyone came near his right arm. He could hear it in the quiet tone of Morse’s voice, the way he avoided certain words, and the way he refused to discuss anything prior to the first time he’d woken up fully. 

What he didn’t know was how to break through. With the kids, Thursday had been the one to either lay down the laws, or lend an ear if Sam or Joan need a less hysterical set of advice. He had no practice peeling back the layers that built up--that was Win’s department. And in the war, his job had been to keep men going, not to help heal them. When they laid down their guns and went their separate ways, that brokenness had become someone else’s worry. He’d never gotten the chance with Carter--he hadn’t come back from his nightmare. Sometimes, late at night, Thursday wondered if that had been a blessing. 

Thursday well knew he’d failed Morse in that respect before. He’d been too easily fooled by Morse’s ability to pretend everything was fine and too caught up in residual grief over Carter. He had let Morse go, and watched helplessly as the lad had drowned his demons in the bottle. He didn’t want to repeat that mistake again, but he had no idea how to approach the lad.

He had tried to broach the subject, after his first ill-fated talk with Morse. But each time he did, Morse would go off on how Levine had threatened Thursday’s family, or how Thursday couldn’t let Levine bully him. He was trying to change the subject, but Thursday could see panic lurking in Morse’s eyes. The more Thursday pressed, the more cracks would start to show in Morse’s armor. As much as he wanted to get Morse to open up, Thursday also knew that he had a long road of physical healing to navigate. He had to let it go, at least until he could find some way of getting Morse to open up without causing him to panic.

He could send Win after him, but something in him balked at the idea. What had happened in that room between Morse and Levine...it wasn’t something that you talked about with, well, civilians. Win was strong--had to be, married to him--but she didn’t need to know the details. He hadn’t even told her what had really happened to Morse’s hand, how cold-blooded and cruel it had been. If he wasn’t willing to tell Win the whole story, he doubted Morse would be.

Even if he couldn’t deploy Win directly, it didn’t mean he couldn’t ask. _ How did you get the kids to open up? How did you get them to trust you, even when they were afraid?_ Years of coppering had left him with excellent interrogation skills, but nothing that would help him here. Win had smiled at him. _ Be patient. Be there. _

So Thursday bit his lip and waited. He stopped by the hospital several times a day, bringing in food once Morse was allowed, and helping him with crosswords. When Morse protested that he should _ be with his family_, Thursday waved him off. He didn’t say what he really wanted to-- _ you’re part of my family now; _ the time wasn’t right, not yet. 

* * *

Thursday didn’t want to take Morse back to his flat. He didn’t want to leave the lad alone with his pain and his nightmares and his memories. But Morse wouldn’t listen; _ I’m fine, I’d only be in the way, I don’t want to bother you_. No matter how many ways Thursday told him that he and Win _ wanted _ Morse to come stay with them for a while, Morse stubbornly shook his head.

He was retreating into himself, just like he had every time in the past. He looked lost, and Thursday wished he knew how to help Morse find his way again. It made Thursday’s heart ache to see the loneliness and the fear in Morse’s eyes. 

Morse had insisted that he could walk up to his flat alright, but Thursday wouldn’t hear of it. He went first, making sure that Levine hadn’t broken his own pattern. Once he’d gotten Morse seated in his flat, he left to retrieve the few things Morse had left in the car.

As Thursday returned, trying to work out a last-ditch plan, he heard glass shatter from inside. A startled yelp followed, and Thursday froze. The apartment was clear, he _ knew _ that. He had checked it himself. There was no way for anything in there to harm Morse. And yet...

Thursday charged through the door, his heart hammering wildly. It took him a moment to realize that Morse was alone--_ safe_. Then time started moving again, and Thursday managed to comprehend what he was seeing.

Morse was leaning against the counter, a shattered mug at his feet. He had himself supported with his good hand; the other was tucked around his waist. His eyes were squeezed shut and his chest was heaving. Even from across the room Thursday could sense Morse’s panic. The lad was _ trembling_.

Thursday approached Morse slowly, making sure his footsteps could be heard.

“Morse?”

Morse made a distressed sound, and hunched in on himself.

Thursday laid a gentle hand on Morse’s shoulder. “Morse, what’s wrong?”

“‘m fine…’m fine…” Thursday suspected Morse was trying to reassure himself, the way the words were whispered. 

Thursday tightened his hold on Morse’s shoulder. “Let’s sit you down, lad.”

Morse shook his head and whimpered. “I’m...I’m fine. Really...I am…”

“No, you’re not, and I’ll not have you collapsing on me.” Thursday growled. He hadn’t raised two children and made Inspector without learning a bit about commanding along the way. Morse’s eyes flickered up to meet Thursday’s. He gave a small nod. Thursday steered Morse towards his couch, refusing to let go until Morse was seated.

Morse stared at his trembling hands with an expression that reminded Thursday of a wounded animal: skittish, confused, and pained. Thursday sighed. He sat himself down next to Morse, and rested his hand back on Morse’s shoulder.

“Morse…” He shook his head. “Listen, lad. I know you think you’ve got to pretend nothing happened. But you can’t go on like this.” Morse remained stubbornly silent. _ Damn him. _ Thursday shifted his hand to Morse’s bandaged one. Morse flinched, but didn’t pull away. “You’ve been hurt, and badly. There’s no shame in admitting that.”

Morse shook his head. “No, it’s…” He closed his eyes, swallowing hard. When he looked up, Thursday could see tears glistening in Morse’s eyes. “Your family, sir--”

“Morse--”

“No, please. Let me.” Thursday nodded. “I don’t want them...or you...I don’t want you to feel that…” His eyes closed again. Morse bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. “It’s...sir, I’m glad it was me.” 

Thursday recoiled. _ Stop it, stop this! _ he wanted to shout. That was a burden Morse was never meant to bear--the choice between him or one of Thursday’s children. Because in Thursday’s eyes, there was no difference. Morse was one of his own, and he would have given everything he had to keep the lad as safe as Joan and Sam were at that moment. But Morse didn’t see it that way, and he wasn’t about to stop that treacherous train of thought.

“I’m glad it was me,” he repeated, softer this time. “I can’t...they shouldn’t have to see that...darkness.” _ Neither should you_, Thursday thought. “I’d do it over again…” Morse swallowed, and Thursday could see the God-awful truth of it in his face. “I’d do it over again, to save them. Or Win. Or...or you, sir.” 

Thursday closed his eyes. He couldn’t face Morse, couldn’t face the way the lad cradled his injured hand. Couldn’t face the fact that he _ meant those words_. Morse _ would _ do it again. For any of them. And yet Thursday knew--he _ knew _ that Morse would never expect the same of them. He was loyal to a fault, and yet he never seemed to understand the fact that others might feel the same about nb him. Certainly, he had no easy time making friends. But there were enough of them--DeBryn, Jakes, Strange, even Bright-- who would come to his aid without a second thought.

“I mean it, sir.” Thursday felt a tentative hand come to rest on his arm. He opened his eyes to find Morse staring at him. The vulnerability in his eyes shocked Thursday. “I mean it.” Another tremor ran through him, and Thursday knew he was close to breaking. “God help me, sir. _ I mean it_.”

Then Morse was collapsing in on himself, losing his tenuous grip on control that he had held on to for so long. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, another chapter has been added. -_- Thursday and Morse had a lot of talking to do, and as I'm just a little bit (read: a lot) of a perfectionist, I chose to break the massive Feels Fest into two almost-equal length chapters rather than one big one.
> 
> The last chapter is almost done. I just...need to convince these two to stop...hehe... 
> 
> Thank you all for your comments on the last chapter. They truly bring me joy, and I _ love _ interacting with you all.


	8. (Say it if it's) Worth Saving Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Watching him was like watching a dam breaking...little chinks of masonry falling bit by bit, until the pressure built and spilled over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It. Is. Done.
> 
> Warnings for some Morse recollection of his captivity. It's not graphic per se, but just thought I would mention it.

A Detective Inspector didn’t embrace his bagman. It wasn’t done, for quite a few reasons. But Thursday had never been one to follow the rules perfectly--he knew when they needed bent, and when to break them. Sitting there watching Morse slowly fall to pieces in front of him, Thursday stuffed the rules where they belonged. He wrapped his arms around the lad and pulled him close. Morse stiffened, and Thursday wondered when he had last been held.

“Relax, Morse. It’s alright, son. It’s alright.”

Morse shook his head--Thursday could feel it against his jacket--and tried to pull back. Thursday didn’t let him. Whatever he thought he had to say, he could say it like this--safe and protected.

“I can’t relax...” the words were muffled, but Thursday could make them out. “I...I can’t...I can’t close my eyes without seeing...and _ feeling _…” Another shudder passed through his thin frame.

Thursday didn’t want to hear; he didn’t want to listen to Morse relive those moments. But he knew that he had to; if he didn’t, Morse would never speak of them. He would carry that horror around inside him until it festered and ate him alive, from the inside out. Thursday had seen it happen, after the war and in his years at London. He’d even seen it in Morse, after the shooting and Blenheim Vale. Not as bad, no, but just the same. He wasn’t letting Morse go through this alone, not again. Not something this horrible. 

“It’s alright, Morse.” Thursday rubbed his hand across Morse’s back. “You need to let it out.”

Morse pulled back, and this time Thursday let him go. Not far, but far enough that he could look Thursday in the eyes.

“They left me there...with...with the knife…” Morse closed his eyes, absently caressing his injured hand. “I didn’t...I didn’t lose consciousness...right away.” His eyes opened, and fixed themselves on his hands. “They laughed at me...and then they left. I couldn’t…” He clamped his jaw shut, throat working against the emotions that battered him. Finally his eyes sought Thursday’s--blue oceans of pain and suffering. “I couldn’t get it out. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t…” He paused, chest heaving from the effort it took to not break down again. “How do I forget, sir? Gull...and the tiger...and prison...I’ve learned how to forget those. But how do I forget..._ this_?” He held his bandaged hand aloft, staring at it with a mixture of anger and sadness.

Thursday took a deep breath. He wrapped his hands carefully around Morse’s injured one, drawing it down. “You don’t, Morse. It becomes part of you. Just like the tiger and prison. Just like the war, with me. And Carter.” Morse flinched at the mention of Carter’s name, but Thursday kept going. “But you find other things to crowd out those memories. Work, and crosswords, and _ family_.”

Morse swallowed, eyes dropping down to his hands. He gave a soft scoff. “I don’t have family, sir. Not really.”

“Yes you do, Morse. You’ve got Win and me, Joan and Sam.” Morse’s head jerked up, baffled surprise on his face. Thursday resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the lads obliviousness. “Win wanted me to bring you home, to ours. With Sam gone for the time being, you can have his room.” More stared at him as if he couldn’t understand the words. Maybe he couldn’t, not really. “You’re not meant to carry things like this alone, Morse. I’ve left you to it before, and I was wrong. I won’t repeat that mistake.”

Morse shook his head, like he was trying to flick off a buzzing fly. “No, sir, it’s not...I’m not your responsibility, I--”

“None of that, Morse, none of that.” Thursday waited until Morse looked at him again. “It’s not a matter of responsibility. Win and I, we want to help you.” Morse still looked skeptical. “Look, if you’re willing to take that fall for my children...that makes you part of our family. Like it or not, Morse.”

“Sir--”

“Goddammit, Morse.” Morse froze, startled by Thursday’s vehemence. “You’ve shouldered too many tragedies on your own. You don’t have to be that strong. That’s how we lose good men, Morse. And I’m not losing you. I won’t.”

Morse stared at Thursday for a long moment. Then his shoulders sagged and he let out a muffled sob. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t...this time.” His eyes fluttered closed again. “It’s too much. It was just...so…” Morse’s face crumpled in pain. “Cruel.”

Thursday’s blood rippled with ice. “I know, Morse. I know.”

“I thought…” Morse opened his eyes. He stared at Thursday in anguish. “He stabbed me, sir. I mean...a few times but that one…” Morse’s good hand ghosted across a spot on his left shoulder. “He...twisted it. Over and ver. And he wouldn’t stop. I _ begged_. I shouldn’t have. It was weak. I know. He laughed at me. But…” Morse shuddered. 

Thursday clenched his fists, trying to erase the sounds of Morse from that call. He couldn’t. He felt a shiver run through him as well. He wanted to tear Levine from limb to limb. He wanted to rage against the injustice that had taken Carter from him and chosen to torture Morse this way.

But he couldn’t let Morse’s statement stand; _ It was weak_. His head had dropped as if in shame, and that wouldn’t do. For Thursday himself had begged. Had Levine asked, he would have bargained. He would have promised whatever was in his power if it would have saved Morse from that knife.

“No, Morse.” Thursday steadied his voice. “It wasn’t weak. I begged him to stop as well.”

Morse’s head snapped up. His eyes widened, lips mouthing a silent _ what?_

“I could hear you.” Thursday clenched his jaw, trying to keep his emotions at bay. “I could hear you.” He stared at Morse for a moment, eyes taking in that face that was nearly as familiar as his own son’s. “He may as well have had Sam, Morse. It wouldn’t have mattered. I knew he was hurting you. God, Morse, I could hear you.” Morse opened his mouth, and Thursday knew what he was going to say. He had to stop him; he couldn’t have stood an apology. Not for that. “Don’t you _ dare _ say you’re sorry.”

“But...sir, it--”

“_No_, Morse. Nothing that happened was your fault. He tortured you, Morse.” Morse ducked his head at that word. “That’s what was done to you, lad.”

“I broke, sir.” Morse’s voice was nearly silent.

“So did I.” Thursday gripped Morse by the shoulder. “He hurt us both, in different ways. The only way we can heal is together. I need to know you’re safe, just as if you were one of my own. And you need to _ be _ safe. You need to not hide from this, or bury yourself in the bottle again.” Morse flinched. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of. You want to forget, and you have to move on. You’ve tried your way before. Maybe it’s time you listen to me and try it my way.” Thursday allowed himself a small chuckle. “I have seen a thing or two in my time. Come home with me, lad. Let us help, Win and I.”

Morse stared at his fingers, eyes roving the bandages and healing scrapes. After a moment, he lifted his eyes up to Thursday. Longing, fear, pain, and pride seemed to tumble over themselves, churning again and again. It made Thursday want to gather Morse in his arms again--or have a word with his long dead father. What had happened that made Morse so suspicious of any offers of help or familial concern?

“Sir...are you...do you really...want me?” He held up his hand and gestured to the healing, hidden wounds. “Like this? I’m not much company...even on the best of days. I don’t--”

“That’s enough, Morse. When have you known me to make offers I don’t prefer to back up?” Morse remained silent. “Right. I meant what I said, lad. You need family to help you through this. I’m offering mine.”

Watching Morse give in was like watching a dam slowly break apart. Bits and pieces of his armor fell away--the emotionless mask of his face, the guarded look to his eyes, the stiffness of his posture. What remained behind wasn’t enough to hold back the dam of Morse’s sorrow. 

“I’m...sir, I’m so tired of being alone.” Morse buried his head in his hands, but not before Thursday caught a glimpse of his tears. 

“You don’t have to be, Morse.” Thursday smoothed his hand over Morse’s back. “You don’t have to be.”

“I can’t...I’ve tried…” Morse’s words were muffled, half choked in his sobs. “I’ve tried to do this alone. To be a man. I can’t...I’m not strong enough.”

Thursday knew where that came from, and he cursed Cyril Morse even as he felt Morse’s sorrow pierce his own heart. How could the lad even _ think _ that? After...after this? After _ everything_. His hand stilled on Morse’s back.

“Any fool can blunder his way off of a cliff, Morse. Only a man admits when he needs help.”

Morse froze. The tears, the sobs--he even stopped _ breathing_. Thursday barely dared to breathe himself-- _ that _ had struck a chord. He prayed it was enough. 

“I mean it, Morse. You wouldn’t face down ten armed men alone.” Well, _ Morse _ would, but that was hardly the point. “You’d call in for backup. This is no different. Consider Win and I backup...hell, Morse, I’m even a copper and Win might as well be after all these years.”

That got a slight huff of laughter from Morse. It wasn’t enough, and Thursday knew it. Well, he’d not gotten this far by leaving things half done.

“Morse, I didn’t know your father.” Morse’s shoulder’s tensed. “But I can’t say I care much for the man, from what little I know. I won’t speak ill of the dead, Morse, and I don’t want to replace him. He raised you, for better or for worse.” Thursday took a deep breath. “But you oughtn’t be alone. You’re still young.” Morse bristled ever so slightly. “I’m going about this all wrong. I’m trying to tell you that you need a father, Morse, especially now. I’ve not got much to offer, lad, but I’ve raised one son already. I think I’ve got enough left in me to see you right.”

Morse peeked out from his hands, shocked eyes seeming too large and almost fey in the fading light. He considered Thursday, not unlike a stray dog examining an offered crust of bread. It was a lot, Thursday knew. Morse was proud, and strong. He liked his independence, prided himself in it. But he was lonely.

Just when Thursday had almost given up hope that he might have gotten through to Morse, the lad’s whole body wilted. It was as if the tension that he had been holding simply drained out of him, leaving nothing but skin and bones behind. He sagged sideways slightly, leaning into Thursday.

“I shouldn’t…” Morse’s voice was rough and thin. He shook his head slightly against Thursday’s coat. “But I’m so tired, sir.” His shoulders twitched in silent, self-deprecating laughter. “I give up.”

Thursday closed his eyes and breathed a silent prayer of thanks. He could read behind Morse’s words; he knew Sam’s bed would have another young man sleeping in it tonight. Win’s cooking would have another mouth to appreciate it, at least for a while.

They sat there like that for a while. Morse leaned into Thursday, a few quiet sobs escaping every now and then. Thursday supported Morse, like he had Sam and Joan when they were younger--not pressing, not forcing, not prying. Just support--strong and peaceful.

_ Never again_, he remembered promising himself as he stared down at the bloodied and bruised corpse of Mickey Carter. He thought he had meant it, then: never again would he let himself care that much, get caught up in a young man’s life, watch it crash and burn. He wondered now if maybe he had meant something different.

Never again would he fail to step in where he was needed. Never again would he let one of his own down. Never again would he ignore the troubles right in front of him in favor of the troubles of the streets. Never again would he forget that...before all else, he was a _ father _.

Thursday took a deep breath. He’d waited a long time for redemption for that dark night. Maybe...maybe at last he had found it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeeehhhhh I finished it. By..._ a _ Sunday...It is longer than three chapters...but HEY I kept one promise...I didn't write anything ELSE in between. Although I do have at least two more (unrelated) ideas, plus whatever ends up happening with a sequel...
> 
> As you may have been able to tell I have _ feelings _ about both Cyril Morse and Mickey Carter. Whoops.
> 
> Thanks for coming along for the ride, folks! Thanks again to Mud_Lark for inspiring this and guardianoffun and fitzrove for encouraging me. And thanks to all of you for commenting! Your comments mean SO MUCH to me.
> 
> If you have any thoughts for the sequel, PLEASE let me knowwww. :)

**Author's Note:**

> In 100% full disclosure, I've also been hella depressed today. Like...bad. Writing is one of the few things that helps get me out of my own mind, and posting helps me to check the "i did something" box. That's actually why this is getting tossed up in a hurry. The muse took hold, and I let it pull me away from one pit of darkness into the some-what friendlier pit of whump.
> 
> Heh.


End file.
